


Unleaded

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-03-11
Updated: 2007-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean isn't the only one feeling the agony over Sam's fate...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unleaded

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE #1 : Takes place during S2- Season Finale - ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE Part One and Part Two... so, yeah... BIG TIME SPOILERS... ; NOTE #2 : Story as told in the mind and/or soul of THE METALLICAR...

**_~ &~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~_ **

**_\- PART ONE -_ **

**_~ &~&~&~&~&~_ **

  


Some people, when they actually think about something other than themselves... they garage their cars. Some cars prefer the protection, especially if the weather's questionable... their mates finding them more precious than a human life.

 ** _You_**... you're different. You always have been. It's never been because of you, feeling superior over humans. It been because of who you've been with, who's been your mate. And certainly it matters who you've chosen to spend the rest of your high-rolling mileage with.

It's Dean. Dean Winchester.

He's yours. Your mate. Mate for life. You know this because he's said so himself, many times. Hanging over your engine, draping his well-toned muscular body over your fan belts and oil filter. He's even lain under you, caressing your under belly, your chassis and fiddling with your brake pads and exhaust pipe. He knows every single inch of you and still manages to speak to you in the morning.

You know he's your last because you're it for him. And you know he'll never let you go, sell you or hock you for money. You don't know how you know, but you've never been loved better.

If you were a woman... you'd be raven-haired and curvy. Ample breasts and wide hips. Junk in your trunk with a set of legs on you that went on forever. You'd wear short skirts and high heels. You'd have long dark lashes and ruby red lips. You'd fuck for hours, but you'd never get exhausted. You'd be feminine, but you could shoot a gun and change a flat when asked.

Not only could you shoot that gun, but you'd know how to clean it, what bullets to purchase and how each mechanism worked. Not only could you change that flat, but you'd know every rubber tire dealer down the eastern seaboard, you could tighten a lug nut with one hand and tire jacks wouldn't scare you from breaking a fingernail.

You're Dean's fantasy woman because you've never let him down. He's your Magic Man because no matter what happens to you... he can fix you. Make you ten times as prettier than you were before.

He's taught you how to be free. How to enjoy life. How not to be afraid of a little rain.

It was abnormally hot today. The moisture feels good on your body paint, washing away dirt, bugs and road tar from your rims. It's late evening and the rain began as mist, then advanced to hard drops. You didn't mind because Dean hadn't washed you in a few days. You deserve a good bath.

It wasn't his fault, nor was it Sam's. Things just got pushed aside for more important stuff and you understood about prioritizing.

It's simply what Winchesters do. And you've been one of them for over half your life.

Interesting day, you think. Sam's been gone for most of it. Bobby Singer has taken his spot in the passenger seat. You haven't been paying attention to what's been going on because usually if Sam's gone for too long, Dean's found him by the end of the day. Or at least he's reached him by phone.

You're fairly sure Dean's getting Sammy when he parks you in front of the fallen tree blocking the roadway. Dean and Bobby exit you, walking away and carrying their "hunting" gear they've gotten out of your trunk.

It's SHOWTIME. And you wish you were parked closer, so you could watch Dean do you proud. Do John proud. You've seen Dean in action before and he is a sight for sore eyes when it comes to any kind of physical action or contact.

You've actually caught a few bullets in your bodywork, from time to time. War wounds, is all. And you've never minded them. They give you character and Dean likes them on you.

Rock salt? Sure. Pelted by a few by accident. Dean always made sure the acidic compound hadn't eaten away your beautiful paint job, causing you to rust. He was oddly attentive, like that, with you.

Demons? Ghouls? Goblins? Dead Folk who don't know "white light" means "buy a clue"? Yes, they've harmed you. Broken a few of your windows, tore at your leather seats. One even oozed ectoplasmic goop on your carpet. Oh what fun that was and the stench was like 100 year old Chinese eggs.

That was the night Dean took you to the 24/7 car wash and vacuumed and bathed you, gussied you up until you sparkled like new, but you were still kind of sticky-stinky for a week after.

Blood? Yeah. Lots of bloodshed in your interior. Some were strangers, the people Dean and John tried to save. Other times they were John and Dean themselves. You can hack it. Dean knows just what to use to take the stench and reddish tint away from your carpet and leather.

Sam's even bled on your upholstery, but you don't count that because nothing seems right if Sam's injured or hurt. You almost forget it once the moment has passed.

You can't bear Sam being hurt. You never could. Strange, you didn't get that attribute from Dean. You actually found that feeling on your own once Sam entered your world.

You're in the middle of enjoying your blissful rain shower when commotion happens.

Dean's coming out of a house, a front door. And he's walking toward you. His arms are swinging heavily by his side and his steps are determined even though he doesn't know he's pacing through two inches of mud to get to you.

You don't know how you knew, but the news wasn't good.

Dean's reached you and he's trying to shove the key in your door, hands shaking, tears mixing with wetness from the evening sky. He's ignoring the voice calling out to him from the distant doorway, the deep bellow of Bobby's barrel voice, as Dean yanks your left door open and crawls inside to his usual seat. He's drenched and you soak up as much as you can to dry him. He's dripping; hair, face, chin, hands, clothing and shoes. He's like a walking puddle.

If it were any other random day, he'd shake himself like a mangy mutt and splatter your interior with wetness. He'd laugh and growl, because though he enjoys getting wet and dirty as much as you do... an unexpected rain shower is an unexpected moment when he'll have to change clothes... or take a shower.

But this time is different than before. He chokes on a breath, which is unlike him. He sucks in air and wipes a hand down his face, scraping away traces of moisture. First one hand raises, then the other and he's gripping your steering wheel tight, harder than he's ever done. He's wringing his hands on your leather wheel covering.

You know _this_. _This_ frustration... _this_ anger... _this_ emotion. You've felt it from him before. When he told you John passed away and he wasn't sure he could do this "demon business" one day more without him. He had to do something to protect Sam. Give him a normal life. A second chance at happiness. Before it all went to shit... or Hell. Whichever came first.

Dean's not saying a word, he's just sucking in air. He won't talk to you. Not like he normally does. His head's bowed, almost falling on your horn. Then he's utterly still, so controlled, quivering and yet unmoving. He hasn't placed the key in your ignition.

You've no idea what to do since Dean's just sitting and gripping your wheel as if he's searching for life inside or trying to choke you dead.

You're not moving and he's not moving. Just breathing, barely.

It's quiet. Quiet except for the pelting of raindrops and the new beginning of soft hiccuping sobs.

You've only had a "four-tire" full of situations where Dean was like this. Where you wished you had hands that touched, fingers that caressed, arms that held and lips that kissed, soothing away the sorrow only you knew Dean was feeling.

John did this once... after Mary...

You can't even think of that day because you wanted to cry just like John had. You wanted to beat your fists and swear obscenities to God and all his minions, just like John had done. You wanted to mourn the loss of a wonderful woman and a beautiful soul, because you weren't real or human and you couldn't do anything but start your engine and take John back home. Back to the boys. You couldn't stall or leak oil like you normally do when you get emotionally wrought. John needed you that night as does Dean... now...

Something must be wrong. Sam hasn't climbed in, yet.

 **_Sammy... What?..._ **

**_Oh, Dean... your Sammy... your beautiful, bright, thoughtful, funny, sensitive Sammy..._ **

It's strange how well you know your mate, Dean. Who he loves and how he loves. There have been plenty of girls on your seat, but none who have won Dean's heart totally and completely.

Not like Dean loves his family. He will always love John, no doubt. He would die for Sammy, his love unmatched to John for his brother.

Dean would even die for you... and he almost did. Once.

This is all too strange...

Sam usually crosses your headlights so you can see him. He'll touch your hood and trail a path down your body work until he reaches the handle. He always notices minute details about you. He'll peel leaves off you and find seedlings inside your nooks-n-crannies and he'll pull them out, throwing them away. He's always brushing you off, making you clean and pretty. He simply takes the bottom hem corner of his shirt and starts rubbing away.

It's weird to not _feel_ Sam once Dean's inside.

You can't find the tug of Sam's hand on your right door's handle, can't sense the weight of his backside in his usual seat, nor hear his voice or laugh. His freshly showered scent was nowhere to be found. His overgrown mop of hair flopping rain all over your interior, just like Dean.

All you hear is water, crying from the heavens and Dean's own eyes and you know... you were right.

This... is not good news...

It takes a short time for Dean to gather himself to move again, then he's turning your ignition over. He's reaching for your brake pedal while gunning your engine. But you stall.

Not because you know what's happening and you want Dean to suffer needlessly, but something's wrong.

Dean's not thinking straight. He's been tempted to do this one too many times in the past.

You know where you'll end up when he gets like this. You don't know if tonight will be your last night with him, ending up a firey ball of wires and antique automotive parts at the bottom of a huge cliff.

Dean likes to push the edge when the edge pushes him. And Sammy still hasn't shown up.

 **_Oh, Dean..._ **

Dean's losing ground and falling. You're wishing for nothing more than someone real who was exactly like you to be able to talk some sense into him. Or that Djinn a few weeks back to grant one wish for tonight... to be made of flesh for Dean...

All you can do is stall. At least stall for time, until Dean realizes what he needs to do is try again to catch you unawares. Turn the key and try again, your engine purring like a kitten.

But Dean's physically and emotionally weak. He's drained. The water that drenched him nearly weighs him down more. He collapses against your high back cushion, his neck craned on the head rest. His dead eyes, pupils full, staring at your ceiling.

Keys have fallen, jangling to your floor as a shaking hand moves to cover his face. His eyes are shedding new tears...

Yeah... you've known pain like this and you hoped no one else would have felt this way... ever again... least of all Dean...

 **_~ &~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~_ **

_Your actual birth was sketchy, at best. You were a "concept" before you were born. A concept erupting from an original. You were the improvement. The newer model for 1967._

 _Your creator drew you, on thin see-through drawing paper. Five layers thick._

 _Why? Well, because each consecutive drawing something about your design changed, until your designer was satisfied._

 _Elliot was a perfectionist. A newly hired, mechanical engineer and recent college graduate who'd begun working for Chevrolet/General Motors on an internship in his junior year. Elliot had only been working for the assembly plant in Detroit, Michigan for 3 months when he came up with HIS version of you._

 _1967's Chevrolet Impala..._

 _You didn't see what was wrong with you before, but you liked hearing about how you were better than all your brothers and sisters before you. Little did you know all those family members waiting in the wings behind you to trump your spot._

 _It didn't matter. This was_ **_your_ ** _year._

 _The Spring of 1966 was your concept year. Where you were presented to the Board of Directors and they actually voted on how you would look._

 _What was nice was... they chose several different versions of you. You didn't mind. Elliot's drawing of you was one of the chosen few. He received a promotion out of this and never looked back. You didn't really know him all that well, no big loss._

 _By the summer of 1966 you were a tiny die-cast model. Too little for Barbie to drive, but big enough for the green plastic Army men to hitch a ride._

 _Chevrolet was trying to find ways of marketing you, making you consumer-friendly. You showed up at all the new car shows in every major city. That version of you wasn't fully functional, but you looked hot. Or so some of your spectators exclaimed. They could have been talking about the beautiful car show spokes models, but you were a "hit" otherwise._

 _Of course Chevrolet debut you in red, white and black. Your special colors were only by request, you were a standard floor model color. Red and white got more attention, though._

 _You still liked your black coloring because you knew you were dangerous. Born bad. Like you wanted your mates to be._

 _Well... you wanted to be thought of as "dangerous", because the word "impala" was actually derived from a breed of deer. Quick and agile antelope-type. Mother Nature tended to feed its impalas to the carnivorous mammals of the safari._

 _You were gonna make something of your namesake. You were gonna make Impalas feel and look as if with one wrong look you could open a can of whoop ass._

 _But hey... at least you weren't the newly conceptualized six slice toaster from General Electric. Wussy..._

 **_~ &~_ **

_Your drawing was tacked on the wall of the main warehouse floor. Supervisors and managers wanted their employees to "see" what a beauty you were in the flesh of your steel. You were going from idea to drawing directly to actual automotive proof of existence._

 _Your Dr. Frankenstein was Sergei Kyros. Most called him "Sergie"._

 _Sergei was born in Russia, came to American 43 years ago. Sergie was 52 years young and a grandfatherly-type. He was a hard worker, often staying behind to keep working when everyone else tried to leave for the day. He dreamed about you before he clocked in, knowing exactly how to shape you to make you work. Some thought him too senile for this job, but no one realized how brilliant a man he really was when given a task of great magnitude._

 _Sergei built you from scratch, walking you through the assembly process. He liked to make sure any vehicle he inspected and would put his name on was picture perfect. You owe him your beauty, your appeal, your style and your grace. He saw your drawing and he replicated his vision to the best ability of his rheumy eyes._

 _Sergei was much like Elliot. A perfectionist, but he hid it under working hard for his family to put food on the table. Sergei was different from Elliot in that he was hands-on, where Elliot liked to stay ten feet in the distance, letting others do the dirty work._

 _For a concept drawing that took Elliot half a work day to construct, Sergei built you in two and a half days. You were his best creation,_ **_he_ ** _claims._

 _The day they wheeled you out of the plant and onto the truck bed was the happiest day of your life and the proudest of Sergei's. You looked sharp paired with the other Impalas and Chevy models of cars for 1967._

 _You didn't know it but Sergei watched you as you exited the parking lot, on your way to a new car dealership in Dufrane, Iowa. He'd been able to take a picture of you on your last day with him and he hung you on his fridge until he retired 6 years later. He never built a better Impala than you._

 **_God_ ** _says so now._

 _Three months after Sergei retired he dropped dead of a heart attack in his recliner, watching "The Price Is Right". He thought he saw you..._ **_HIS_ ** _67 Chevy Impala... next to one of the spokes models on TV. If only he could read the vehicle's VIN number, he'd be so sure._

 _The contestant didn't win, but it was okay... it wasn't you anyway. You'd have been pleased to know... Sergei went quietly without severe pain. Doctors said it was a blood clot, seconds to live._

 _You never knew someone had loved you that much. They actually thought about you before they passed. You would have been touched had you not been excited about breaking out of your shell and going up for sale._

 _But... you were locked in a warehouse prepared for your debut in another month. You had to wait, but you were patient. More than your brothers and sisters._

 _You had this feeling (Sergei had said a few blessings over you, in Russian) that you were built from love, so shall you end with love. And you truly believed that, because Sergei had nice eyes, a sensitive spirit and strong hands. It was almost as if a piece of Sergei was IN you and thriving as you aged._

 _Winter meant new cars for the new year. You were the only black 4-door Impala for this Chevrolet car dealership and you couldn't wait to see who your new mate would be._

 _You knew a tiny bit of what would happen to you. Sergei's co-workers talked... A LOT. Well, more than Sergei did and you learned enough about life and humans to choke a tiny village. Some days you had wished for those ear phones Sergei placed over his ears so you didn't have to hear everyone's chattering. Most certainly the terrible filthy language and the highly inappropriate dirty jokes._

 _You were proud to be placed where you were on the sales lot in Dufrane. Once you realized how elite the placement of your brothers and sisters meant, you discovered they were sold first._

 _Being in the showroom, on the showroom floor, meant you were the product. Being parked in front of the building itself meant you were next in line from the showroom._

 _You? You were stuck between the peacock blue and the sunburst orange. You were in a strategically placed, slanted line formation that was supposed to attract people from the highway._

 _You didn't understand why folks could NOT see you._

 _Someone eventually did and... it wasn't exactly love at first sight..._

 **_~ &~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~ _ **

It took awhile for Dean to wake himself out of his stupor. Once he did, keys were found and he started your engine. You almost had drifted off, too. You were alert, watching Dean for signs of discouragement and depression.

You don't remember Dean being this way at all. Even when he had hunted alone, without John. Or Sam.

Oh, man... what you wouldn't have given for Dean to have had Sam all those months ago, when John was off on his own.

You could've chalked it up to missing companionship, but more than anything you knew how much Dean missed Sam. In fact, if it had been up to you, (having a futuristic self-propelled driving ability) you'd have driven Dean to Sam's college dorm as often and as soon as possible.

Why not? Dean had looked at all the maps every single time after he ended a case. He always tried to gauge how far he was from Sam.

Maybe he'd go visit, chit chat and chew the fat, hit a local bar, drink some beers, pick up a nice chick, spend some quality time with her and be on his way.

But even you knew once Dean found Sam again they'd be inseparable. Dean wouldn't be able to let go again. He'd find some excuse to cling, to make Sam never leave his side. Not because of any obligation, but because they truly did need one another.

Without John, Dean had nobody and no one, but you. And you were only his car, his transportation, his way of getting around. You knew Dean loved you, relied on you but there was no way you could reciprocate back the same feelings.

Sam actually made Dean's heart pump, made him want to be alive. Sure Dean needed human contact and not just female companionship, in bed, cuddled warm to his side. As does anyone trying to survive alone. But Dean... he needed someone to shove him, someone to tease him, laugh with him, be angry at him, annoy the crap out of him.

He need that "bitch" to his "jerk"... and THAT... that was Sam's job. Always had been. Nobody else fit the bill.

And Sam... well, you knew Sam could go along on his own. He always could and would. As a child never afraid, until someone explained what exactly was in the dark, lurking about. The reason to have all the ammunition and crosses and holy water and rock salt. You didn't blame John for making Sam too sensitive of a man, because he'd done just the opposite with Dean. And together the Winchester brothers made a great human being. It was difficult to picture one without the other after weeks and months of them in each other's back pocket.

Like now. You weren't sure what Dean or you would do if Sam left a second time.

Dean drives you differently when Sam's beside him. Awake or asleep, Dean's got purpose and end in sight. He's got meaning and feelings and he has a certain pride in you that makes his chest puff out.

The music's loud and rockin' and there's yellin' and pushin' and name callin'... but there's Life, at least...

Right now... there's an overwhelming stink of Death, but you don't know where it's come from.

And there's still no sign of Sam...

You're not sure Dean knows where he's going, he's simply attempting to escape. Run from some demon, literally. The one he thought he could evade or thwart. The one Dean had told you he feared would take Sammy one day and never give him back.

You thought it foolish, because... hell, this is Dean. Your Dean. Dean can handle anything.

But right this second you're not sure what Dean's made of... or capable of... and it's scaring you...

Dean drives along a dirt road to find a state paved stretch of highway. You're a little relieved, but not by much.

You're still pretty sure Dean's in search of some _place_. Some place where he can ponder his future. Think about continuing the hunt. Or end it all... in one blink of an eye.

You hope he drives on forever, because your story's just getting started... and he's not supposed to die today and neither is Sammy... you're sure of it...

 **_Come on, Sammy... where are you...???_ **

**_~ &~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~_ **

_Your first owner was a poet. A beatnik poet who had a trust fund he wanted to burn on something frivolous._

 _YOU? Frivolous? Maybe... if you were cotton candy pink with cream cashmere upholstery, your chrome made of gold._

 _He could be wrong... this Poet. And he meant the other Impalas beside you. But nah... you're being "checked out", under the hood and your under belly. They even opened your trunk._

 _The salesman handed The Poet your key and they took you out for a test drive._

 _You're a pro at this, you've done ten in the last week. You know how to perform and what to do to impress. But you weren't sure you had your game face on that day enough to give it your all. You're not impressed by this young man._

 _He dressed in your colors. Black, like your body paint. Black like his soul and his poetry. Even his eyes have black tracings around them._

 _In the next half hour you learned his name was Grady. Grady O'Neal and he wasn't really looking for you specifically to be his dream car. His One and Only. And, by now, you're annoyed, a bit miffed. Thinking this "transaction" rather frivolous._

 _Grady simply wants to piss off his parents. To you, that sounds pretty bad-ass and dangerous, but you weren't quite sure if that wasn't just said to get the salesman off his ass. You were willing to give him a chance. Maybe this Poet can be a good mate to you if he works hard enough._

 _Your sale went through and you were off the lot for the first time in five months, after creation at the Detroit plant._

 _It's Spring 1967... the year was flying into summer months..._

 _In six months time, after your sale, the "honeymoon" is over._

 _Grady barely drove you. Apparently you were a "gas guzzler" and this offends Grady. The black he once wore turned into multi-colored shirts and linen pants with sandals._

 _Grady's colors no longer matched yours. And he was actually kind of, uh... happy._

 _Now he wasn't a beatnik, Grady was a full-fledged, actualized hippie. He's seriously thinking about giving you a tie-dye paint job._

 _You freaked out, because there's no going back once someone's colored you some obscene shade of insanity. Somehow the idea lost momentum when Grady and some of his friends decided they were dodging the draft as a group._

 _You went on your first road trip. You're going North. Far North._

 _You were on your way into Canada. Vancouver area. You liked it because the terrain reminded you of Iowa, with the openness and awesome landscapes passing by._

 _What you didn't like were the winters. And for good reason._

 _Grady still won't drive you. He has chosen to leave you in the yard of the house he's renting with friends and opting for the VW Beetle Mini-Van they'll share._

 _You've never seen the like of its kind before and you weren't sure buttercup yellow doesn't signify a certain weakness that the car's not trustworthy._

 _Well, not as trustworthy and sturdy as you are._

 _See... one thing you learned in the assembly line, alongside Sergei, was that you were full-blooded American Made. Right in Detroit. There's a certain pride in being born of your own country._

 _Instead of being cheaply made, shipped from overseas and opted for speed, more miles to less gallons. Plus that VW's innards sounded ominous, like a_ **_put-put_ ** _engine. Like if put to the test it would conk out on Grady and his friends and leave him stranded to die in blistery weather conditions, along a lone stretch of roadway._

 _Your engine always_ **_purred_ ** _. Always. Even when you've been frozen for months on end._

 _If only Grady would've looked at you, found his keys and taken you for a drive, you could've proved your worth._

 _You have a strength in you that was born of your automotive ancestors for decades. In fact, you were a legend even before you were conceived._

 _Grady wasn't willing to part with you, for some unknown reason, and you've suffered through too many Canadian winters to care anymore._

 _That was until the day SHE walked into your life._

 _You weren't sure of her actual name, at first, but she liked to go by Rainbow Summer. She was kind of... ditzy, dishwater blonde. Grady fell in love pretty quickly. And you saw her eyeball you the more she came over to the house._

 _You liked Rainbow because... well, the first time she saw you she caressed your body work as if she owned you. She saw your damage, your not-so-beautiful aging and she remedied your problem quickly. She found a near pristine black nail polish and covered up your dents and scratches, making you feel girlish for the first time. Like Grady was supposed to do occasionally._

 _You hadn't been touched in months and you knew sitting in the grass hadn't been good for body work, your upholstery or your interior carpeting. And you were certain a nest of birds and raccoons had been living in you. At least they were kind, friendly and cleanly animals._

 _Though Rainbow was a fellow hippie, like Grady and his roomies, she began to grow tired of being so happy all the time. She really... REALLY wanted to take a walk on the wild side. She thought YOU were her "key" to unlocking her inner rebel._

 _With your mate's permission and begging for your key, Rainbow and you went out on your first girl's night out. Both of you in black leather. Rainbow found a cropped leather jacket at the Salvation Army depot. She wore the silly jacket when driving you. You both giggled when her leather met your leather and the most obscene noises would sound._

 _One random afternoon, she took you to a coin-operated car wash. For the first time in years, you seriously have the most fun you've ever had since leaving the Detroit plant. That same excitement you had about being brand new flushed your system and you almost swore, though you were 3 years old, you had been reborn._

 _You liked Rainbow more than Grady, Rainbow liked you more than Grady, too. In a fit of rage, one night, you two had bonded so much, Rainbow packed everything she owned into you and for 300 dollars you weren't Grady's anymore._

 **_~ &~_** _  
_

_Rainbow wasn't Rainbow. She became Rachel Sommers. She was on her way to a job interview in Los Angeles. Rachel had a degree in English (minor in Business), but she managed to swindle a position at a movie studio. Only because her best friend's mother knew this guy and this guy had an Uncle who knew an executive guy (high up) who needed a personal assistant with no ties to the industry._

 _You got noticed a lot in the movie studio parking garage. Especially by men. Studio executives and actors, writers and some directors. All trying to tap into some inner persona fighting to release itself just by the way you looked all sleek and slim-lined, ready to take a bite out of the hard road ahead._

 _You had to thank Rachel for bringing you here to Hollywoodland. Without her efforts and Hollywood's appeal... oh, and Steve McQueen films... you wouldn't look very appetizing._

 _Rachel was too attached to you. You couldn't bear to let her go, not until you knew she'd be alright on her own. You two have been inseparable. You thought, by the way Rachel was acting, it was only a matter of time before one of those male eyes caught you, snagging you blind. Rachel would, then, sell you at the drop of a hat._

 _Rachel had a new man in her life. Though he liked riding in you (never driving you) and you could deal with him and his gruffness about how greasy and grungy you look... he wanted to sell you about a million times and buy Rachel something brand new. Reliable and current, he said. He was a good guy. He would take care of Rachel and make sure she was happy as often as you know you've made her happy. That was all you really cared about._

 _Rachel's boyfriend knew a detailer/auto body repair guy who could spruce you up and make you look passably pretty, again. You were excited, feeling the rush of a new mate in your future and the possibilities that would entail._

 **_~ &~_ **

_Anselmo Guevara entered your life. And it was like Sergei all over again. Anselmo loved your vintage look. He knew exactly what to do to shock you back into existence._

 _You get reupholstered, new carpeting, your engine's weak spots are replaced and some new tires are donned on you._

 _Anselmo even jacked you up. From lowly AM/FM to the newest craze... 8-track. And here you were first introduced to your new favorite love... music. Loud, fast-paced, rhythmic notes reverbing all around you, coming out of your 6 new speakers. The two on your door tickled you._

 _The band Santana was played often and "Black Magic Woman" was something Anselmo hummed to you while he waxed your body paint to a sheer, glowing shine. You knew secretly, Anselmo called you this nickname and you didn't mind because somehow that told you... you were loved._

 _Anselmo was so proud of you... his pet project... that you were often his "driving" billboard. He had attempted to display you any way he could. He rarely ever parked you somewhere where you were hidden. You felt the sun on you 24/7. In inclement weather, which rarely occurred in Compton... you were brought indoors. Anselmo had even bought you a special tarp to lay over your body work. It had been made of the finest suede fabrics._

 _It hadn't take very long for Rachel to realize where you truly belonged. Anselmo had grown attached to you._

 _They made an even trade. Anselmo deducted the price of his service off Rachel's price tag for your bill of sale... and that type of fairness was cool with you._

 _You've found a new mate who would appreciate your finer things and would do anything in his power to make you beautiful._

 _In a simple gesture of kindness, Anselmo handed your key to Rachel. One last ride with the "girls" for a very long lunch break. Three hours later, Rachel gave you a tearful goodbye, handed your key back to Anselmo._

 _All you could do was leak oil and stall. That was you're way of saying "goodbye", or crying and hugging your feelings away like a human being. You didn't want to move, you wanted to savor Rachel leaving. Allow her a moment to watch you as she moved on in her life, driving away one final time._

 _It was then that you realized how important you were to people. That the heartaches would become less because you had been a good thing for those who allowed you to enter their world. You made them feel special. You made them feel young again. You made them re-evaluate their lives and caused them to take a turn they never would have before._

 _Anselmo was pleased beyond belief to be your new mate. So much so... he drove you cross country, back to Brooklyn, New York where he was born. Where his Mom and Pops lived and his brothers and sisters resided._

 _You had an amazing vacation and you discovered your newest passion..._ **_road trips_ ** _._

 _You were built for the highway. You didn't know how you knew this, but interstates, late-night diners and frequent exit turn offs were in your future._

 _Somehow you knew Anselmo wouldn't be IT for you. There's_ **_more_ ** _to come in your life._

 **_~ &~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~_ **

And that **"more"** you'd been thinking of... was breaking, cracking to pieces right before you.

Dean's caught between speeding and swerving on the road. He's muttering to himself and banging fists on your wheel.

You now realize Sam may never be coming back and you want to mourn the loss, like Dean's attempting to NOT do.

But you've resolved in yourself to be strong for Dean. Always. You never let anyone know how weak and sentimental and emotional he really is. You two have had quite a life together and you plan to have more until you turn your last mile on the speedometer.

Your dream is to die in his arms, while falling apart to be reborn in another Chevy Impala. You've had years to figure this out. If you die too soon, you want your parts to be donated to those family members in junkyards near you to have a second chance. Or a third or a fourth.

You know you've had a full life and you don't want to be resold to anyone else like you were when you were younger. That's why you stick by Dean and won't bog him down with difficulties.

You hide when you're hurting. When you need a valve or a brake pad replaced. You even work on less oil some days when Dean's head isn't in the right place. When he's preoccupied with humans in his life. Especially when he's thinking about family... John, Mary and Sam. Mostly Sam, these days.

You'll take the hits for him, and for those he loves, because too many times you know Dean's placed his life on the line for everyone else. He's never gotten the thanks deserved for putting himself in harm's way.

Danger 24/7. That's you and Dean's motto.

You're fairly sure Dean has nine lives and unsure exactly which life he's at now. But you're not gonna take the chance he's on his last one and he'll leave you like all those other mates.

You took a serious hit for the Winchesters a year ago. Usually, no car could revive itself from being hit by a Semi/Tractor trailer, but you're living proof that you and Dean are meant to be.

Not only are you certain Dean is loved, but those he loves love you. And that's a weirder feeling than you've had before. An entire clan of family and friends loving you because of your mate.

You never tell Dean, but you consider Sam your mate, as well. He's a different mate than Dean will ever be. And it's not something you've heard your kind ever state before. Near as you can tell... from late night gab sessions with Mary Winchester... you feel like Sammy is your son. Like because Mary and you bonded all those years ago, she left you a responsibility. Every time he's seated on your bench seat, his life is in your hands. You'd do anything you could to protect Sammy and you have. With Dean riding shotgun.

Sam drives you differently than Dean. There's a fear in him, yet he pretends to be at ease. Sam knows how important you are to Dean so he behaves behind the wheel and doesn't cheat or swindle his way out of traffic incidents. He obeys the rules of the road. He'll speed up but he'll slow down when he spots other cars with radar detectors.

But you figured out a way to alert Sam to easing off your gas pedal. You'll make a backfire noise, sounds like a buckshot and Sam knows to lower his speed to less than five or ten.

From time to time, Sam drives with one hand, placed at 11 o'clock on your steering wheel. You used to be scared of that, not sure one-handed driving was safe. Dean always drives with both hands on the wheel, but they're lazily, yet strategically placed around three and nine o'clock. You didn't realize it before and it took you several tries before you became aware that Sam liked to touch you with his free hand. As a means to ground himself and soothe you into understanding how nervous he really was behind your wheel.

Those long nimble fingers clutch leather seat. They tuck under his right knee as muscles clench and open the more he presses on the gas pedal. He'll play with your dashboard, rubbing off dust and grime. You like it when he wraps his arm up high on the back of the front seat, almost driving with his knees. He's so relaxed in that moment... you can almost hear Mary Winchester giggle like the schoolgirl you made her feel like. You often wonder what Sam would do if he knew how alike he was to Mary, a mother he barely knew. But then he'll touch you and your spinning madly out of control with adoration. He does it unconsciously now... and it's something you look forward to because Sam's got the softest hands and they pinch your leather like flabby cheeks on a baby's face.

Sam almost hates to love you and you know. You and Dean are like boyfriend and girlfriend. Sam never saw Dean without you and you without Dean. He knows there was a time John was your mate and you two were together, but those memories are foggier, because he was only a child. By the time Sam was old enough to care what you were, Dean was learning how to drive and you would be HIS car when the time came to get his driver's license. Sam was always... always the passenger.

John entrusted you into Dean's hands and Sam was never supposed to drive you. Secretly both you and Dean taught Sammy how to drive. And YOU only let Sam drive you, besides Dean.

Oh... and the occasional phantom driver who likes to possess you for fun and frolic. Never let it be stated the Winchesters were boring to hang out with.

Dean rolls down your window... wanting the cold, hard, fast air to pelt his face, keeping him coherent.

The rain has let up, sliding into the mist it had begun as... and Dean can hear water. Flowing river water.

You know the paved road you're on must run along with a local river, which means it's got a bend or an end or a high point off a cliff.

Dean's gonna find it and you're praying... that someone besides you is looking out for Sam, because if the news doesn't turn good... you're not certain Dean's gonna last the night...

You've heard Dean's speeches... at graves and shouted to the dark heavens, but you wish he'd simply fall into that frame work and not tempt fate like you know he will...

It's times like these that make you ponder your own mortality, glance over your own life and wonder how you got where you are and how extraordinary it is that you've survived this long...

There's got to be a point to all this.

There's just got to be some explanation for all this **heartbreak**...

 **_~ &~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~_ **

_All this trouble started with one name. One man... and he wasn't even your mate to start with._

 _John Winchester. A living, breathing and walking heartache._

 _Tall, dark and_ **_heartbreak_ ** _... that's how you first saw him. Sweet southern drawl and a smile that would make ladies melt._

 _You only noticed him because he wasn't looking at you, which never failed to hurt your feelings. You were always quite proud of how you appeared and appealed to your mates at first sight, but John actually had a chip on his shoulder about you._

 _You were with Anselmo at the time, pulled over in a Texas gas station off Interstate 40._

 _John had been riding around town with two Marine buddies and it was one of John's friends, Travis, who was interested in you. John grumbled and mumbled his displeasure at his friend's desire to take you for a spin. The way some people got about those who liked motorcycles, riding around without helmets on their heads._

 _John didn't think Travis should make the offer for you, because... well, he stated they would be shipped overseas soon and there was no sense in gathering up "useless garbage" he was only going to have to get rid of years down the line._

 _Anselmo came back to you at the pump. He noticed Travis was interested. They discussed a few things. Anselmo was polite but declined the offer of selling you to a complete stranger. Only because he was unable to think of replacing you. You were priceless to him. His work of art._

 _John Winchester had just called you "useless garbage" a few minutes before and your ego was on a high after your mate's sentimental words._

 _Travis was insistent that he could make a good buy for you. At one point, you began to notice Travis. There was something about you that sparked a familiar chord in him and everyone heard it in his voice. It was as if he'd seen you in his dreams and you were something he'd always wanted._

 _Anselmo was a bit stunned by the young Marine's emotional state and wrote down his auto body shop's address and phone number in Compton. He told Travis if anything should come up, for either of them, a monetary value could be negotiated for your sale. Anselmo wanted to give them both time to think about it. No hasty decision making that day._

 _Travis thought Anselmo had been awful fair about this entire deal. He hadn't meant to use his weepy emotional state to cause the man to change his mind._

 _What you didn't know was Travis had been very close to his grandfather, when he was younger. He had often sat riveted near his feet, listening to the old stories of Russia, when he was a kid. Grandpa Sergei had died before he could see Travis graduate the Marine Corps. Travis vowed one day to find the elusive 1967 Chevy Impala, black body-paint, four doors... and make her his own._

 _Having found you, that exact day, was fate on Travis' side. He had needed something tangible before he and John and their fellow crew went off to war. A good luck charm. He'd been having reservations over his role in the war, wanting to fight for his country overseas. He needed something viable to make him comforted to know he'd made the right decision. He'd come back home safely and buy you later on, when his tour was over._

 **_THIS_ ** _... was his sign._ **_YOU_ ** _..._

 _John Winchester and his friends left Anselmo's side to enter the tiny gas station's supermarket, buying food and drinks for the road._

 _Anselmo contemplated the predicament, but got back behind the driver's seat and headed onto the highway._

 _These men would never meet again, but they would become a part of each other's lives, again, in a round about way, in a few years time._

 **_~ &~_ **

_Anselmo took you back home, but you couldn't forget that silly, hateful man... John Winchester. If you could talk you would've asked Anselmo to hand John your key. You'd have taken John out and shown him all you had to offer a man like him._

 _While you were preoccupied with John, Anselmo was getting more and more worried about his mother. She was getting sicker and sicker every day. The money he had been making wasn't enough to help pay her hospital and doctor bills. She would eventually be terminal and have to be placed in a nursing home. Anselmo's father was getting too old to take care of his wife all by himself._

 _In a year's time, Anselmo had made a difficult decision. Something he never would have considered had the one person he loved most in this world hadn't gotten sick. He wanted you to know he'd have kept you forever and infinity, but... he knew you would understand. He needed more money. He was selling his business and moving back home to Brooklyn. He had two personal cars, but you were his best seller. He could get more money for you than his 1965 Ford truck. He had figured to call the number of the young man, Travis, who'd made him that offer awhile back._

 _But when he called, Anselmo discovered that Travis (who had looked no older than 21yrs old) had been killed during his tour of duty and brought back home. Buried in the family plot in the hometown cemetery._

 _Anselmo was disheartened, but optimistic. If this family was anything like what Travis had babbled on about, he knew this particular 1967 Chevy Impala might mean something extra special to the young man's father._

 _And he was right. Once Travis' father knew what make of car his son was intending to purchase... he agreed to pay anything for you. He even offered to pay for shipping you out to him, directly._

 _Anselmo declined, knowing that this man had suffered enough heartache in his life. Anselmo's parents had always taught him to be kind to others first, because good karma would always come back to him in the end. And he'd never forgotten that sage advice._

 _There was something quite cosmic and poetic about being brought back into Sergei Kryos' family fold. You had no idea who or what would meet you when you arrived, but the prospect alone of finally seeing all those people Sergei yammered on about, while you were being built... you almost felt as if you were on your way back home. A final place to rest._

 _Anselmo spent the last weekend with you, riding you down to San Diego, turning around and then taking you back up to as far as Sacramento. It was your most favorite road trip and send off. You would miss Anselmo and Santana, not being called "Black Magic Woman" in a sultry Cuban accent, but somehow you knew things were never gonna get worse, they'd only get better._

 _Anselmo had made a lot of friends because of his business and this time when you left on a truck bed for your new mate's home... you actually watched Anselmo get smaller and smaller as YOU drove away from him._

 _You swore you saw a tear, or two, but you couldn't be sure. You leaked oil and tried not to be too excited about moving on in your life._

 **_~ &~_ **

_The day you met John Winchester again was something you've conjured up in your system as being your second birth date._

 _You thought when you would arrive at Sergei's son's home you'd be treated with kindness and respect. Little did you know WHO you were being given to... and where you would end up in only six months time._

 _You weren't in a wreck. You weren't totaled. You were still intact, but the young man who was supposed to be your new mate didn't seem like he was someone who appreciated hard work or the finer automobiles in life._

 _You didn't even bother to learn his name. He was simply your... driver. He didn't deserve to be remembered._

 _He neglected you, treated you as if you were some simple car to drive to and from wherever he was going or heading. He didn't take care of you like he should've and you suffered. He stopped driving you after awhile and actually parked you next to his double-wide trailer. He had a large yard, fenced in. And you sat next to the tiny shed that housed his lawn equipment._

 _The huge John Deere tractor had gotten more use than you._

 _For HIM... you were too much of a classic car and 8-tracks were so 1970. You were being looked over for the newer Chevy models and not really the same brand of car sometimes._

 _Little did you know how far and wide John Winchester searched for you. The day he came back from his own tour of duty, he went right into looking for you._

 _Surprisingly, John was different than he was before he left. He had been despondent over the death of his best friend, upon his return home he made it a point to travel to see Travis' parents and give them some insight into the how's and why's of their son's untimely demise._

 _John had always gotten along with Travis' father, listening to him ramble on and on like his own father, Sergei Kryos. John stayed for dinner and Travis' father told him about the strange phone call they'd gotten about you. The long tale of how you were supposed to be purchased upon Travis' return home from the war._

 _John was beyond touched, concerning the story and actually asked to see you. When he learned you weren't there, but stuck in someone's yard not being driven... he was pissed. Angered, even. The thought of something Travis apparently loved was being ignored made John's blood boil._

 _The next morning John got up and made a quick dash to the man's home. He had been completely devastated witnessing his best friend's death that he vowed to keep his memory alive somehow... and you became his closest link. The inner "mojo" to allow John Winchester to grieve properly, even though he hated the very sight of you all those years ago._

 _The moment he showed up on the trailer's doorstep... you leaked oil. You were happy and sad all at the same time. And you knew... you knew John wouldn't leave this house without you._

 _John couldn't see you, but you could see him. There was too much tall grass growing around you. Old engine parts leaning along your body work. The John Deere tractor was out and you were positioned perfectly behind the ungangly shaped monstrosity._

 _The second time you met John Winchester... YOU fell in love... and you haven't been right ever since..._

 **~ &~&~&~&~&~&~...TBC...~&~&~&~&~&~&~      **


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